


Recruiting Bond

by timetospy



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Reverse Age Gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: Bond is drifting from job to job after his discharge from the Navy. Q is in need (well, maybe not *need*) of a new agent.Fic will be updated bi-weekly as edits are finalized.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Witchpenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchpenguin/gifts).



> Thank you to witchpenguin for the amazing art, Nut for organizing this, and my wonderful betas Rose and Beau

“Give me a reason,” Q said as he tightened the last bolt of the new undercarriage on Double-Oh-Five’s car and rolled out to glare at Eve Moneypenny.

“I’ll give you three,” Eve replied, leaning against the brick column that separated this stall from its neighbor in Q-branch. There were nine stalls all together, one for each agent, and one was empty: Double-Oh-Seven. Tillerson had gone down during his mission to Honduras six weeks ago, and M had yet to come across a suitable replacement. Not that Q was anxious for another agent on his roster. Eight self-righteous prigs was enough, thank you very much.

“One.” Eve stuck out her thumb, counting off her reasons. “You never leave this cave of an office. Two, your skin is starting to become translucent because of reason one. Three.” Eve wiggled her extended fingers in Q’s direction. “You need to have a little fun. Preferably with another human. And Loelia and I happen to be in a charitable mood and think you’ll like this place. It’s called The Gallery.”

Q wrinkled his nose. “I don’t do clubs,” he said.

“It’s not a club,” Eve retorted. “It’s a jazz bar. Much more refined.”

Q perked up at this. “Experimental or old standards?” he asked, trying not to let his bias show. He did enjoy experimental music, but not to relax to.

“How long have we known each other?” Eve asked, her perfectly plucked eyebrow lifting.

“Long enough. I’m guessing we’ll be hearing several renditions of _Ain’t Misbehavin’_ then?”

“If that’s what you request. The band is excellent.”

“You won’t let this go until I agree, will you?”

“Unlikely.”

Q heaved a put-upon sigh, even though his interest was definitely piqued. “Very well. What time?”

Eve grinned and patted him on the cheek. “The band starts at nine, and we shall be fashionably late.”

“Eleven?”

“Just so.”

***

James rolled his shoulders and shook out his hands as he stood just under the canopy that covered the entrance to The Gallery. It wasn’t his kind of place, really. Too pretentious by half, with live music four days a week and a clientele that skewed towards the ‘filthy’ end of rich. Not his kind of place at all. He’d much rather cruise the crowds at The Seventh Element up the street, although to be fair he’d only go inside if he wanted to pull and he could do that just about anywhere. Wearing his Navy uniform might be a bit of cheating since he’d left active service, but he’d gotten more than one blowjob out of it, so who was he to argue.

The truth was, he’d only taken this job because he needed the money. London was bloody expensive and while his background of military service recommended him for any menial job he’d like to take, bagging food at Tesco wasn’t quite his speed. He’d managed to land several gigs at other clubs over the past year, all with healthy reports of his ability to keep chavs in trainers outside and pretty girls in slinky dresses inside without causing riots on the pavement. The Gallery paid twice what any of his other jobs had, and he’d jumped at the chance, even if it would likely prove to be a bit more mundane than he was used to.

But, of course, that meant starting at the very bottom of the totem pole again. Which is why he was standing outside the door when it was three degrees outside and drizzling. Well, at least there was the canopy; it kept the majority of the weather off.

James was just thinking about ducking inside for a minute to find some gloves when it happened. The most beautiful man he’d ever seen stood, right there, at the head of the line. A shock of dark hair, calm green eyes behind heavy-framed spectacles, a sharp jaw and full pink lips. He was of a height with James, but slender where James was broad, sharp where he’d grown rounded in the year since his discharge. It was impossible to guess his age - he seemed timeless in a classical way - and James realized too late that he’d been staring a bit too long without glancing at the man’s credentials.

He cleared his throat, shook his head, and peered at the offered identification card, which stated plainly that his name was Sebastian Flyte and that he was born in 1980 - making him 38. Surprising. The man looked much closer to his own age, not ten years his senior.

“Enjoy yourself tonight, Mr. Flyte,” James said, and managed a smirk that didn’t feel too oily.

“I think I might just,” he replied, tucking his wallet into the pocket of his dinner jacket and gliding inside.

***

Q enjoyed the music immensely, even going so far as to request _The Girl from Ipanema_. Mostly because he could, but partially to see how the leader reacted to the request - which was to hide a wince and graciously perform the song with flourishes from both the horns and percussion. Q was impressed. He’d have to take pity on them next time and request _Moondance_.

And he had to stop and wonder at himself that he was seriously considering returning. But he had to admit that he was enjoying himself. The music rendered the usual small talk irrelevant or easily struck up between sets, and the atmosphere was modern without plunging headlong into industrial - just enough warm wood and brick to keep it from being impersonal. And the band was excellent. Stellar, in fact, and Q was one to judge - long ago and far away in the land of University he’d dabbled in jazz piano and had been, himself, part of a septet that did weddings and such. It had been a little more than dabbling, if he were honest. He’d entertained the idea of playing professionally. But his skills at an alphanumeric keyboard far outstripped his abilities at a musical one, and so he’d fallen into coding and security - and had ended up at MI6, working his way through the ranks until tragedy had catapulted him to the top of his division five years ago.

And he was so steeped in work that even his relaxation had him contemplating blueprints in his head as he absently tapped out chords in time to the music.

“Is this normally how you look when you’re having a good time?” Loelia asked, poking him good-naturedly in the shoulder.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never had one,” Q returned, deadpan. Loelia laughed.

“No, I suppose not. All business, you are.” She considered him for a moment, and a sliver of fear shot down the back of Q’s neck at her expression. “You need a dance,” she proclaimed, winked at Eve, and grabbed Q’s hand.

“Excuse me?” Q squeaked.

“You came here to have a good time, right?” Eve said, prying his fingers off the edge of the table. “One dance isn’t going to hurt you.”

“But I don’t--”

Loelia grinned. “If I can teach Eve a foxtrot, you’ll have a cha cha down in thirty seconds.”

“She’s the dance instructor for the Double-Ohs, as well as being their collective PA, didn’t you know?” Eve smirked and shook her head. “You’re in good hands, Q.”

“Why did I let you talk me into this again?”

Eve merely grinned and waved as Q trotted apprehensively after Loelia.

***

By the time James’ break came around, he could barely feel his fingertips and was grateful for the cup of coffee Eddie handed him as he passed the bar on his way to the employee lounge. It had been an uneventful shift so far, save for a gaggle of drunk blokes that came stumbling out of Seventh Element about midnight and thought they could just waltz right into The Gallery in that state. James had informed them of their error, and once they’d understood, they had hastily staggered to the bus stop down the street and boarded the first bus that came by.

James was looking forward to warming up, and more importantly, finally finishing _The Kill Artist_. He’d been slowly chipping away at it for weeks, reading on the tube on his way to work, and on his breaks. Now he was fifty pages from the end and couldn’t wait to see how Gabriel untied all the knots.

He’d just settled and had gotten about three sentences in when the door to the lounge opened with a deafening bang and the most irritating laugh filled the room.

“Evening, Chuck,” James said, and stared at the page, knowing that until he was left alone, he would get exactly nothing out of his novel.

“Jezza,” came the reply. It was an ongoing war of monikers - Chuck wanted to be called Chazza, and James refused, so Chuck dutifully called James Jezza, which everyone found frankly embarrassing.

“Who’s that again?” James asked, and glanced over his shoulder, looking for someone else in the room.

“Do you have to be such a twat?”

“No, but there’s just something about you, Chuck. You bring out the best in me.”

“How many times I gotta tell you, man, you’re not my type.”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me. I actually have a pulse.”

“And you’re breathing. Repulsive.”

“I thought there was something cadaverous about your last boyfriend,” James said. It was a low blow, true, but the two of them had been at this for months and neither was any closer to backing down.

“What the fuck? That doesn’t even make sense.” Chuck rolled his eyes and shrugged. Well, if it had gone over his head, James wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten him. He pointedly returned to his book and about five seconds later, Chuck banged out of the lounge again. James merely shook his head and went back to his book.


	2. Chapter 2

Q prided himself on his ability to pick things up quickly, but for some reason the two-step was eluding him. The cha cha had been easy enough, which had given him a false sense of ability, apparently, because for the third time in as many minutes he trod on Loelia’s foot.

She grit her teeth, sighed, and nodded. “Alright, once again. You’ve found the rhythm easily enough, it’s just a matter of memorizing the steps.”

“Why on earth is this called a two-step when there are about thirteen?”

“Because the whole thing is variations on two steps. Honestly, if you get those -- ow!”

“Sorry.”

“You were outside the box again.”

“Apparently.” Q sighed. “How about we take a break? I’ll get the next round of drinks.”

Loelia rolled her eyes, but acquiesced with a smile. “Don’t think you’ve gotten out of this one,” she called after him as he made a beeline toward the bar.

He’d just stepped up to the bar when a brick wall of a chest plowed into his shoulder.

“Oh, sorry, I…” The man who’d bumped into Q wore a black polo shirt with the Gallery logo on the pocket. “I’m James,” he said, his lips sliding into a smile that made Q’s heart play a hearty round of hopscotch. “Are you enjoying your evening?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Q replied. He hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide the blush he could feel creeping into his cheeks. He recognized the man-- James. He’d been at the door when Q’d come in. He’d thought him handsome then, too, with sandy blond hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. But it was an abstract, window-dressing kind of appreciation. Having him smirking ten centimeters away was a decidedly different kind of experience.

“Surprisingly?” James’ eyebrow lifted.

Q shrugged. “I’m not much of a one for this sort of thing, normally.”

“Pity. You really brighten up the place.” James’ smirk grew, his eyes danced, and his gaze very pointedly raked over Q’s frame.

Q chuckled, flattered, and wondered if James flirted with all the customers he nearly knocked over. Probably. He looked the type. “Well, maybe I’ll be back. The staff is certainly appealing.”

James leaned in, only a breath away. “I look forward to it.”

And then he was gone, melting back into the crowd like a mirage.

Q ordered the drinks and returned to the table, only to find it empty-- Loelia and Eve had taken to the dance floor and he had been left to watch the drinks. He wondered if he should have flirted with James a little longer, lingered in the attention even if it was insincere. It had been a long time since a glance like that had been welcomed, made him feel wanted - however briefly. But as he watched Loelia and Eve dance, he remembered that the reason he didn’t seek attention was the loneliness it left in its wake. He had a hard enough time explaining away his occupation to his sister - how on earth was he going to explain it to a partner?

Q drank deeply, washing away the melancholy with the beer, and laughing with his friends when they returned to the table, breathless.

***

James wrung his hands and blew on his fingers. They burned unpleasantly as the blood warmed to above freezing. The night had grown steadily colder, the drizzle turning into tiny balls of ice as he stood sentry at the door, and his nose and fingertips had paid the price. Tomorrow he would definitely be bringing gloves. But, he’d made it to the end of his shift without frostbite, so that was something.

He tucked his hands into his armpits and slipped into The Gallery to collect his book and a coffee to go from Eddie before heading home. It was nearly four in the morning, the band had just packed up after their last set, and there were only three customers left inside, all of which were regulars. James sighed. He hadn’t been hoping. Not really. A smirk and a compliment were hardly adequate to hook a man like Sebastian Flyte.

But he couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed - for missing his exit, if nothing else.

“One for the road, James,” Eddie said, and set a disposable coffee cup on the bar.

“Thanks, Eddie. Need it tonight - my fingers about froze off!” James wiggled them to prove his point.

“Lucky it wasn’t your dick,” Eddie said. “Next time bring gloves, ya pillock.”

James laughed and raised his cup in salute as he started back towards the staff entrance. He’d just passed the loos when he heard movement ahead of him, the shuffling of feet and the rustle of clothing. He didn’t think much of it, most of the staff were getting ready to head home, it was probably one of the servers shrugging into a coat.

“Aw, c’mon. Just one?”

James recognized Chazza’s voice immediately. He sighed, and waited for the bastard to leave first so he wouldn’t have to deal with him. Once was enough for tonight.

“No,” came a second voice, firm and masculine. James frowned and stepped slowly toward the sharp turn in the hall by the kitchens. 

“I saw you eyeing me earlier. Don’t try to deny it. You like what you see, don’t you?”

“That’s not the point--”

More shuffling, and a muffled ‘ow!’ and Bond couldn’t stop himself. He’d gotten into more fistfights for sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong, but he couldn’t just walk away, either. He stepped out, and there was Chazza with Sebastian Flyte pressed up against the wall. Sebastian struggled to pull his wrists free from where Chazza had them pinned above his head, but sadly was no match for Chazza’s strength.

“What the hell are you doing?” James demanded.

Chazza looked over and had the temerity to smirk.

“Seb and I were just having a chat,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”

“No.” The syllable could have frozen hell, and Sebastian’s eyes were just as cold.

And that was all James needed. He closed the distance in two quick steps, pulled his arm back and socked Chazza right in the jaw. He had to admit a certain catharsis in finally having a good excuse to punch the man. It had been a long time coming.

Chazza reared, releasing Sebastian and turning on James, but James was ready for him. He dodged Chazza’s right cross and landed an uppercut into Chazza’s stomach, which was softer than he’d thought. All arms, no abs in the workout regimen, then, and James chuckled to himself.

Chazza doubled over, but used the momentum to grab James at the knees and take them both down with a grunt. James landed hard on his backside and the impact knocked the wind out of him. He lay there gasping like a fish out of water, momentarily terrified as he tried to take a breath and nothing happened. Chazza took the opportunity to land a punch to James’ kidney, but the angle made it a glancing blow, nothing pierced the haze of his inability to breathe.

It was only a matter of a second or two, but it felt like hours as James took shallow breaths, re-inflating his lungs bit by bit until he could finally breathe normally. He was just starting to recover, when Chazza’s foot connected with his ribs in a fierce kick. James curled, protecting his stomach, and Chazza landed two more kicks to his back before James could find the fortitude to move

He’d been too headstrong to make a good sailor, and he knew it, but what he’d learned in training came back to him as he rolled away. As Chazza came for him, James turned back and grabbed him by the ankle. He twisted and pushed, throwing Chazza backwards onto the floor and gaining him a precious few moments to gather himself.

Standing seemed to take a bit more effort than usual, and he’d have a plethora of nasty bruises, but he was standing, so that was something.

Chazza was on the floor, now, and James stood over him, their fortunes reversed in the space of a few breaths. James laid his foot on Chazza’s chest.

It was then he turned to Sebastian.

“Are you alright?”

He seemed remarkably unphased for having gone through such an ordeal. He rubbed at his wrists, but otherwise seemed unharmed. 

“I’m fine, thanks.” He sounded petulant. “I had it under control.” James rolled his eyes. So much for gratitude. 

“I think you owe this gentleman an apology,” James murmured to Chazza, who’d begun to squirm underfoot. God, it felt good to finally be able to put this guy down. He really ought to thank Sebastian for the opportunity. Maybe over dinner...

“Fuck you,” Chazza spit, and made to push James’ foot off. James pressed harder, and Chazza went a bit purple.

“Say you’re sorry for being a shitgibbon and deliberately misunderstanding Mr. Flyte.”

Chazza glared, and James sighed.

“What in bloody blazes is this?”

James took a deep breath, removed his foot from Chazza’s chest, and turned. There was Phillip Monroe, the manager, staring at him with his hands on his hips and murder in his liquid blue eyes.

“He attacked me!” Chazza cut in before James or Sebastian could say anything. “I was minding my own business, talking to this customer, and he just came out of nowhere and punched me.”

Phillip sighed and shook his head. “We’ve talked about this, James,” he said. “You can’t antagonize the other staff. You and Chazza have had your differences-” James couldn’t hold back his snort, “-but this really is beyond the pale. I’m going to have to let you go.”

James formed about thirty different rebuttals in his head, all of which he knew would fall short. Why couldn’t he just have left well enough alone?

“That’s not quite true,” Sebastian said, and every eye turned to stare at him. “Charles here -” James snorted again, and Sebastian lifted an eyebrow but forged on, “Charles decided that he didn’t like my answer to his question, to put it delicately, and that force might change my mind. It didn’t, and that’s when James rushed in.”

Phillip looked like he’d been hit by lightning. His jaw hung slightly open and and his eyes darted from Sebastian to Chazza to James and back again. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, everyone go home. Chazza and James, you have the rest of the week off while I figure out what the hell I’m going to do with the two of you.” Phillip turned to Sebastian, “Can I call you a cab? On the house.”

James didn’t hear what Sebastian’s answer was. His best course of action was to hightail it out of there and live to fight another day.


	3. Chapter 3

The lights of the city slid over the black cab as it wove through traffic, Q pressed into the corner of the seat and staring at the buildings without really seeing them. Q had wanted to stay for the last set, but Eve and Loelia were ready to go. It hadn’t seemed like a problem at the time. He’d been to plenty of concerts alone. He’d be fine. 

Except he hadn’t counted on Charles.

Except Charles shouldn’t have been a problem because that kind of thing happened to other people. Not the Quartermaster of MI6, a man who could level entire governments from the comfort of his own flat. 

Except it had happened, and it left him feeling small and useless. He tried to tell himself to stop being ridiculous. It wasn’t as if anything had even happened. Charles hadn’t had the chance. And he would have been able to defend himself anyway, it had only been… He stopped to think about the last self-defense course he’d had to take, and it was a few more years ago than he cared to admit to. 

And now Q couldn’t help but wonder. Wonder what would have happened if James hadn’t shown up when he did, and hope that he wasn’t in truth small and useless. He thought about finding Chazza, using his own sort of strength to make his life miserable, but the thought of looking at that face again made his stomach roil.

The cab hit a pothole, a bad one. The cabbie swore in Polish. Q knocked his head against the glass and hoped they hadn’t bent the rim. He rubbed at his forehead and decided that he was probably overreacting. Nobody died. Nothing exploded. He’d been through worse and come out swinging. 

Of course, all of that had been on the other side of a screen. 

“Weather is awful today. They say snow for tonight.” the cabbie’s accent was thick and pleasant, his tone conversational by way of apology for the pothole. Q sighed, unsure if he was pleased at the interruption or not.

“Oh really?” 

“Mm.” the cabbie nodded. “Not much - but it never takes much, does it?”

Q snorted. That was an understatement. Sometimes even the threat of snow brought the city to a screeching halt. “No.”

“I remember the snows in Poland - up to our knees and still we were never bothered. If you need ride tomorrow, you call Antoni. I go anywhere in the city you need.”

Q chuckled. “I’ll remember.” 

The cab settled into silence again, the cabbie turned on the radio to some awful pop station, and Q sighed. He was unaccustomed to the kindness of strangers. The dark underbelly of humanity - the parts of the world that most would just as soon pretend didn’t exist - was what he lived and breathed daily. There was some part of him that honestly hadn’t been surprised by tonight. Far worse happened every day, every hour.

But James _had_ surprised him. Not only with his willingness to jump into something that didn’t have to concern him, but his actual ability to fight. He’d looked very much like a recruit just through his first round of training...

***

Q stood in front of the bullet-proof glass of the Q-branch observation booth. He cradled his tea against his stomach as he watched a pair of agents spar below him, testing a new impact-resistant fabric.

He’d watched sparring matches like this countless times - most of them more intense than the delicate dance 004 and 009 were currently performing. He took another sip of his tea. His glasses fogged with the steam, the figures below him blurred, becoming James and Charles for a split second. Then his lenses cleared and it was simply Reesa and Williams again, spinning around each other and dancing just out of reach.

He leaned over and pressed a switch, speaking into the microphone. “Put your backs into it. I need at least a baseline impact reading for unarmed combat.”

Reesa managed to flip him off while performing an aerial cartwheel. Q was impressed. Not that he’d admit it.

“Come down here and put your back into it!” called Williams. Reesa took the opportunity to land a hit square to the middle of Williams’ back. Williams didn’t even flinch. Q turned to his screen and scrolled through the data input from the strike and nodded. Absorption and deflection were well within maximum range.

“I’ll need three more just like that,” Q said into the microphone. “Preferably on more vulnerable parts of the body.”

Williams grinned and immediately landed a kick to Reesa’s groin that should have left him sprawling. Should have, but didn’t, and Q went so far as to say ‘thank you’ into the mic, to which Reesa glared and Williams guffawed, leaving himself open for another hit, this time to the stomach. Q shook his head, and double-checked his numbers.

***

James was feeling pretty good as he made his way to The Gallery that afternoon. It was cold, sure, but the sky was blue and the first wisps of spring hung on the breeze, a promise of warmer weather. If he believed in such things, the weather might be a portent for his future: bright and clear and pleasant. Phillip might be a stuffed shirt, but he was fair, and James had a good feeling about this.

He swung into the pub and waved to Laura, who was just finishing up the floors, hung his coat in his locker, and walked into Phillip’s office like he owned it.

Phillip did not look happy to see him, and James’ confidence cracked like a badly-fired bowl.

“Sit down, James,” Phillip said.

James sat.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go,” Phillip said. “You and Chazza both. I can’t have this level of animosity between coworkers. I realize this might seem unfair, but it’s the best option for all of us.”

James let his head fall back and glared at the ceiling. No good deed went unpunished, he supposed, but this was ridiculous. Just when he’d landed a decent job, too. What in the hell had he been thinking?

Well, he hadn’t been, that was obvious. Stuck his nose in, tried to do some good, and this is where it got him. Of course. 

“Well, if that’s all, I think I’ll go collect my things. Did you want the uniform back now, or-” James started to pull his shirt off as he spoke. It was petty, sure, but it made him feel better.

“No!” Phillip squeaked.

James pinned him with a lifted eyebrow and practiced glare. 

Phillip cleared his throat and tried again. “No, that won’t be necessary. You can bring it by… later. Tomorrow.” He nodded.

“Sure. Tomorrow.” James was pretty sure he’d just mail the damn thing. He never wanted to see the inside of this place again. 

***

He dithered for a fortnight, but the final straw was M calling him into the office to demand why the 007 position hadn’t been filled yet. And so he screwed his courage to the sticking place and asked if Eve would come with him back to The Gallery.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Q nodded, pulling his resolve up by the bootstraps. “With you, yes.”

Eve nodded. “Fashionably late?” she asked with a rakish grin.

Q couldn’t have been more grateful for her understanding. “Just so.”

He laughed and joked with Eve as they made their way to the club, chatting about music, about work as much as they could, about how Loelia was upset she couldn’t make it. 003 had just come in from mission and the debrief couldn’t wait.

He stood in line at the entrance without a problem, a bit disappointed that James wasn’t at the door, but not giving up hope. He even made it to the table easily, choosing one a bit further away from the stage this time, since neither he nor Eve had any intention of dancing that night.

“Have you seen him?” Eve murmured.

“No, not yet. It might be his night off.”

Eve looked incredulous. “You mean you didn’t check first?”

Q shrugged, sheepish. “I ran a background check. His work schedule didn’t come up.”

Eve lifted an eyebrow. “Mmhmm.”

“You know it isn’t just about that.”

Eve nodded. “I just wanted you to admit it. How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine.” And he was. All evening.

Q fought with himself for an hour before he finally decided to walk up to the bartender and ask.

“Is...James here tonight?”

“James? Nah, he got sacked a week ago.”

Sacked? That seemed supremely unfair to James, but also fortuitous for Q, so perhaps he wouldn’t close down the club just yet.

“That’s a shame.”

“You’re telling me.”

That piqued Q’s interest. “How do you mean?”

“He was a decent bloke, you know? Knew what he was about,” the bartender chuckled. “What did you want him for, anyway?”

Q shrugged nonchalantly. “It feels a bit ridiculous, now, but he’d invited me back personally. Thought I’d look him up.”

The bartender laughed. “That sounds like James. Sorry you wasted your trip.”

“Oh, it’s not a waste,” Q said. “I still get to listen to the music.”

He enjoyed himself immensely, right up until he had to use the loo. It was down the hallway, not quite so far as Charles had drug him, but it didn’t matter. The dread climbed up his spine, tendrils digging between vertebrae like icicles, and he sprinted the last few feet to the loo door.

He shut himself in a cubicle and caught his breath, berating himself for being ridiculous and thanking James yet again for being the sort of person who stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. It was that sort of goodness that had stuck with him. You couldn’t teach that, it was either with you or not, and that kind of moral compass would serve James well.

***

Two weeks. Two full weeks and not a bite. He’d never had this much trouble finding something to at least tide him over. Damn Chuck for being a slimy cockwomble, and damn Phillip for firing the both of them when he had a witness that said Chuck was the cause.

He dug his hands into his pockets and started up Nigel Road towards the White Horse pub. He didn’t even know why, other than a pint sounded good and anything that took his mind off what was fast becoming a dire situation made things bearable for at least a few hours.

“James Bond.” The voice came from behind him, and he froze.

“Who’s asking?”

“I believe you know him as Sebastian Flyte.”

The name made the hair on his arms stand on end, the name enough to pull up the pleasant memory of his company - brief as it had been - and the painful aftermath. He turned to face the speaker and smirked. She was gorgeous in a posh peacoat and yellow heels, hair a halo of curls around her head.. 

“And why would I want to see him?”

“He has a job offer he thinks you might be interested in.”

James laughed, rueful and bitter. “What, he waits just long enough to make sure I’ll be gagging for it, is that his game? So I’d be sure to bite?”

The woman sighed. “I told him this was a bad idea,” she said. “But he was adamant. So here I am.” She pulled an envelope out of her coat and held it out. “Take it if you want. Everything you need to know is inside.”

***

“Ever been to Pakistan before?” Q asked as he double-checked the kit he was putting together for his newest recruit. This was the final mission before he would take his number, and Q wanted it to go off without a hitch.

James had passed all levels of training with his ego fully intact, surpassing Q’s expectations and endearing himself to M in a way Q had never anticipated. This was the first mission where James would be taking a personalized kit into the field - all missions before had been standardized. But this one-- this one had been hand-selected by M as James’ proving ground. When he returned, he wouldn’t be James anymore, he’d be Double-Oh-Seven, and Q was trying to brace himself for that.

He’d seen it happen often enough. The way their eyes dulled, paranoia sufficing for personality. He hadn’t thought it would matter all that much to him, but James was different. There had always been that spark of attraction, of course, but it wasn’t just that.

Q shook his head. 

“Not as a civilian,” James deadpanned. 

“Well, Vernon Redmond, you’re about to invest in some mining operations there.” Q handed him an envelope. “Copper, specifically. Your informant looks to be using one of the smaller mines as a cover.”

“Naturally.”

“Figure out what he’s up to and where it goes, and then… well.” Q pinned James with his eyes, a rueful smile twisting his lips. “It’d be a shame if something were to happen to him.” Q handed James the sleek black case that contained his weapon and Q’s specially prepared ammunition, pre-marked so that any striations would never lead back to the same weapon twice.

James took the case and smirked.

“And Bond,” Q said, sorry that this brief exchange was the end of his time with James, “bring back the equipment in one piece.”

James chuckled. He took a few steps toward the door, then paused, his hand on top of the case he’d just been given. He turned back.

“I never asked,” he said, frowning down at his hands, “because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. But I think it’s time I did. Why me?”

“What do you mean?” Q returned. He knew very well what James meant - why did Q choose him for this position, why had he championed him through the training process - but he wanted James’ clarification first.

“What made you choose me? What did you see?”

Ah. Yes, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

“Initially, I suppose, it was your fighting technique. Scrappy, but trained. I suppose that was from your time in the Navy, although I didn’t know it at the time. But you showed me something else that day, and I’ve never forgotten.” Q turned. He wasn’t sure he could look at James as he confessed this next bit. “The best agents are the ones who know, in their core, what’s right and what’s wrong and aren’t afraid to face the consequences of the answers they find. I knew, even if you lacked the technical skill, you’d make an outstanding agent because you have the heart for it. Backwards as that sounds.” Q swallowed and finally met James’ eyes.

James said nothing, but stared back at Q, his glacier blue eyes inscrutable.

“Would you do me one favor?” Q said.

James nodded.

“Don’t let it make you hard. Whatever happens out there, don’t let it burn you.”

Q felt the pricking at his eyes and cursed his sentimentality. James narrowed his eyes, and Q thought that for maybe a split second he was going to approach, but he just huffed a laugh, shook his head, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's supported me in this project. @roseforthethorns for always being my cheerleader and @beaubete for nudging me in the right direction. This couldn't have happened without you.
> 
> More of my writing can be found [here](http://timetospy.tumblr.com/tagged/timetospywrites).


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